


Metamorphosis

by Hyoushin



Series: blue winter roses [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, Existential Angst, F/M, Fic, Jon Snow is King in the North, Masturbation, Near Future, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R plus L equals J, Rating May Change, Sibling Incest, Tags May Change, character driven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9911174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: A rivulet of red glided down her thigh.In this single moment, it surely seemed like the gravest calamity ever to befall her.





	1. Awakening

In a burst of hot and sudden freedom, a rivulet of red glided down her thigh. The sensation brought about a sense of urgency that exiled any trivial thought from her mind.

Arya gazed down at herself. _I am wearing breeches,_ was the useless, inner observation. She hoped the dark, long tunic she was wearing would conceal the calamity staining her attire. Every feature of her face struggled to maintain credible impassiveness, for, in this single moment, it surely seemed like the gravest calamity ever to befall her. A large part of her being wanted to cave in and indulge the little lost girl who needed to wail—wail at her own death. Thirteen, almost fourteen, and nothing. Its absence had given rise to hope, but of a kind that could be misleading at best. Arya knew that, and yet, she kept entertaining a fantasy in which she could stay as she had always been.

Change was, at times, fraught with undesirable ambiguity. This was one of those. She was now in the process of _transitioning,_ as her mother once told her when she elucidated the matter one cold afternoon, a long time ago. Her mother—Arya could still recall the color of her hair; how her fingers would sink into her tresses as easily as slicing butter—omitted to mention how you were supposed to feel. Arya was not sure if it was customary to feel small and powerless against its inevitability.

Arya frowned. Then spun on her heel and escaped from the Great Hall and its bright lights, deafening noises, and dancing guests.

Arya rushed through corridors that lead to her chamber. Her figure was dyed in hues of red and yellow by the row of lit torches hanging from the walls. Midway to her chamber, the ache Arya had been experiencing all day spiked, turning briefly into considerable pain. It was nothing unbearable, but it halted Arya’s movements. She placed a hand on her belly. _Compose yourself_ _. You're being ridiculous._

Arya stiffened when she felt a foreign hand upon her shoulder. This curse was messing with her senses, she should have been aware of someone shadowing her footsteps.

“Arya?”  

Beneath the weight of his touch and the timbre of his voice, her body unconsciously unwound its muscles. She turned around to face her—cousin, _royal_ cousin. Arya had required a couple of seasons to get accustomed to that particular change.

“Your _grace_ ,” she murmured; it was not hard to assume a mischievous countenance.

Jon released a sigh. His expression expelled his discomfiture. “Ah, _please_ , do you really have to do that?”

“Only when I’m sure you’ll fluster like that,” Arya smirked. “You make it easy.”

John gazed at her. With the hint of a smile on his lips, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I—” and because she was Arya Stark, she bit her lip. The lie she had been about to utter crumbled on her tongue as a large palm cradled her cheek, a waft of warmth caressed her skin, and a fingertip rested upon her lower lip.

“Turn any paler and I fear you will be mistaken for an apparition,” Jon remarked with something akin to amusement.

“I’ll be fine.” Arya scowled. She was not a child to be coddled anymore. Her curt manner spelled out her displeasure. “Your presence will be missed. You should be back at the feast.”

“And you should lie down. I have been watching you, _sweet_ cousin, and you appear out of sorts,” Jon said, not at all bothered by the alteration in her behavior. “Sansa took the liberty of ordering this concoction for you.” In his other hand he held a wide cup which he lifted for Arya to take. “She asked me to deliver it to you as well. She says that it weakens—” he made a significant pause and continued, “certain womanly ailments.”

“Oh.” Sansa could be irksomely perceptive. Arya took the cup and proceeded to sip the liquid. It scalded her slightly though she welcomed the sweet aftertaste of honey. “Thank you, Jon. Do you perchance know what she’s alluding to?”

 “I have my suspicions,” muttered Jon, “and if I’m right, then, it is not the end of the world, I suppose. You needn’t worry.”

“What would you know?” she grumbled. “You are a _man_. Only another woman can know what this is like—what it _means_. I’ve always considered it’d be like a shackle. I’m different just because I bleed. Expectations, duties, and whatnot, my life dictated by a drop of blood. I tell you now, I _refuse_!” She aimed her defiant grey eyes at Jon, her cousin and _king_ of her land.

“Good to know that in spite of all that has occurred you are still you. In truth, that comforts me and I would not have it any other way,” he declared. Leisurely, his fingers brushed aside her bangs, and after that, he tilted her head back to leave a kiss upon her brow. “Will you get some rest, Arya?”

Arya was not prepared for this onslaught of affection; it quickened her pulse and fragmented her concentration. His displays of tenderness had the tendency of overwhelming her. “I promise. Go,” she urged. Jon looked like he wished to object but he complied and went back.

Secure in the confines of her bedchamber, she removed each piece of clothing. She stepped towards a full body mirror she hardly used to stare at her body. Carefully, she unraveled the bandages covering her growing breasts. They bounced a little. Arya cupped them; both felt heavy and odd. She traced, with trembling hands, the contour of her waist, her hips, her dirtied thighs. Old lines and shapes were being redrawn. Her body was not the same. A natural transformation was upon her, gradually molding her into someone different and she was unable to hinder its progress.

“I’m changing,” she whispered, “but Jon thinks I’m still me no matter what I look like. I believe him.”

 _I am what I am. Nothing will ever change that, however—_ Arya splayed a hand over the mirror— _Arya Stark will have to discard one more face. The face of a little girl. This must be done._

She studied her reflection once more and the fear that had been festering within her all along—began to dissipate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H-hi.  
> I'm...trying to come back? It's hard though feels like I'm out of tune lol. I was kinda stuck.  
> The context here is open, I just wanted to do something short and simple, not polished or edited, but I also want to further develope this idea, so we'll see.


	2. Juvenal

Faint sounds of a scuffle caught his attention and drew him deeper into the godswood. His silent companion, Ghost, loped not too far behind him.

Before long, Jon pinpointed the root of the disturbance.

He leaned against a tree, diverted by an Arya who assailed with fearsome single-mindedness an already battered dummy. The dummy had been dressed with rags beneath which wood served as a skeleton and straw as flesh. By this point, if it had been human, Jon thought, they certainly would have been on the road to hell, for each fist and kick made an effective job of channeling her ire and violence.

 _Whatever could have provoked her so?_ His brow furrowed lightly as he pondered. He had seen her last the night of the feast. Since then, Arya had made herself scarce. Sansa recommended that it would be best if no one were to bother her. “I was still in King’s Landing when it came. It chose the worst moment to appear,” Sansa had confided to him with a voice thick with the remembrance of events untold. “It is not easy. So we should leave her be for a while. She will come to accept it.” When Jon inquired what could she mean by _it_ , Sansa only sent him a smile enclosing an enigma. “Acceptance comes with time.”

A loud demand cut through his thoughts. “Whosoever hides from me ought to show themselves. Your presence is irritating.”

Chuckling, Jon stepped out of the shadows, letting the sun reveal his identity. “Irritating now am I?”

Arya was surprised, then with a huff, she replied, “somewhat.”

“Remind me not to anger you,” Jon commented as he eyed the dummy. Straw was poking out of its torn clothes, wooden arms were fractured, and Jon did not want to imagine how it could have been beheaded. “Your sparring partner seems on the verge of raising a white flag.”

A smirk containing danger, and perhaps, anticipation, crossed Arya’s face. “Feeling like taking his place?”

Arya must have smelled his indecisiveness for she began to persuade him, “Why not? Just stand there, try not to get hit, and that would be it. It won’t last long.” At his prolonged silence, Arya sauntered up to him, and peered at him with guileless eyes. “Nothing we both will not be able to handle, I promise.”

Jon sighed his assent. It was futile to refuse her whenever she set her mind to achieve something. “All right.”

“Let us dance,” she muttered.

 

Jon was conscious of Arya’s strength and ability; she had proven herself during times of strife and peace as a capable fighter—so her effective strategies along with her calculated movements reminded Jon once more that Arya was not the wee skinny girl he had left behind. A youth had replaced her, someone self-reliant and resilient who knew how to tease and deceive using her clever nimbleness. Jon suspected that there would be a painful black and blue pattern over half of his skin on the morrow, as a ceaseless shower of blows kept him alert, blocking those which could not be evaded and receiving those which could not be blocked.  

Her fierceness stirred instincts that had no room in his current role. He was there to drown her own need to discharge the cause disrupting her composure. Jon understood since he too tended to do the same. A compulsion to counterattack, however, was corroding his tolerance. The challenge in her gaze was fuel and it induced a muted growl that resonated in his chest.     
  
He saw Arya leaping high into the air, whirling to land a fatal kick to his undefended temple. Instead of only sidestepping her attack, Jon seized her ankle, pulling her body towards his. Dodging a punch bound for his left eye, he managed to capture her fist, then the other one in a last resort move. Swiftly, he bent both of her arms behind her back, trapping her in the width of his body. Arya struggled for a spell, but as a reflex, his hold only tightened further, tearing a low gasp from her.

Jon realized he had never been this close to her, towering over her in this manner. His long brown locks curtained each side of her face, her chest was firmly pressed against his, and in between their profiles, was a small void filled with their conjoined, agitated breathing. _She has grown_ , Jon felt the truth of that wayward thought through the closeness he inadvertently brought about. Those eyes of hers, big and wide and bright, _grey like mine,_ stared at him endlessly, an indescribable emotion sailing across her expression as he continued to contemplate her with equal intensity.

The flush of exertion lighted up her face, defined her cheekbones, guided him towards the next splash of color—a tint of cerise on her parted lips.

 _“Shouldn’t you be getting a Queen, King o’ kneelers?”_ An echo of a memory drifted those words into his ear like a whisper. Jon had come here to consider the matter but then— _“…you’ve forgotten how to steal a woman.”_

Twin howls startled him, making him loosen his hold. Ghost and Nymeria padded towards them. Arya freed her arms and slowly distanced herself from him as a dispassionate façade concealed her heart. Jon watched her and a thing feral, territorial rose to take control from within without his consent.

“We should stop. It has been enough,” Jon stated in a grave voice.  _This raw side of me, it's trembling, butting against its cage_ _._ “I should return to my duties.” He sent a pointed glance at his direwolf when he made no move to depart, “Ghost, let’s _go_.” His direwolf followed albeit with seeming reluctance.

Before vanishing amongst the trees, with his back to her, Jon intoned, “Arya, I’m—”

“ _Don’t,_ ” she interjected, “be stupid. I am not made of porcelain.”

Jon nodded and resumed his march through the woods. He sensed Arya’s gaze on him, accompanying him until his form was out of view.

_I am not made of porcelain_

And Jon agreed, but in his mind, her assertion had done nothing to quell the disquiet born of this interaction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, 1k chaps(interconnected scenes more like) going under the same theme. Let's see how this plays out peeps. :)


	3. Abstract

Her heart kept thrashing her chest, perspiration moistened her nightclothes, and her lips exhaled puffs of breath as the remains of her dream tantalized her still.  She, as Nymeria, had raced across the woods, against the howling wind, trying to lose the only pursuer that was capable of chasing her.  The contents of her dream were nothing special and yet—the sensations she experienced as she dreamt heated her body. It was just a chase. A game. But her tongue clung to the taste of sheer excitement and was unable to release it. It felt authentic—that untamed sort of freedom, but beneath the shade of the night, it also felt like a secret of a provocative nature.

She dragged the fabric covering her up to her waist. A hand moved to grab her thigh, nails carved reddening tracks into the skin as the girl remembered her human self. _A ghost was about to overtake me._ The knowledge of what happened next eluded Arya’s mind. Her hand was drawn to the concentrated heat between her legs. She touched, pressed, rubbed and the rest of her body answered back. Her actions heightened the longing she had woken up to. Arya never put much stock in the bawdy ramblings of whores and flowery utterances of courtesans, but on this, they could be believed. Experience had taught them what the flesh needed whenever it began to cry out in the dark.

And she heard herself crying out, over and over, untying all the restrains, desperate to satisfy this irrational hunger. Some nights were spent in this manner, as the full moon spilled its light into her bedchamber, dispelling shadows from new and strange wants. 

The final tide of pleasure swept her away; she remained motionless for a moment, then she pulled off her nightclothes and threw it away, not caring where it might land. Arya shut her eyes, letting the evidence cool upon her skin. Her body had quieted, if only temporarily, for she had become aware of a growing void, located somewhere, refusing to be filled no matter what she tried. And with this recurrent thought, she drifted off to a deep sleep.

  
Morning found her breaking her fast atop the roof of a turret. From her vantage point, she could see the pale sky overhead as she listened to the sounds of the castle inhabitants bustling about. Arya nibbled a loaf of bread, alone, until someone sat beside her, forcing her to share the limited space of the crenel she had made her hideout. A light frown showed her annoyance.

“You make him worry and fuss so much about you. I tell him you’re fine but he turns deaf to my assurances.”

As though invoked, Jon strode into the courtyard with Davos at his side, both engrossed in a discussion. Arya turned her head sideways. Unbound locks of blond hair swaying in the wind greeted her first. Val without her thick braid was an unfamiliar sight. Arya thought about replying but her mouth did not move.

“Are you going to vanish every time the moon rises?” Val tries again.

“I’m not bleeding.” Arya muttered. “How did you find me?”

“Mysteries are hard to keep as such in places like this. Someone always saw or overheard something.” Val smiled. It was a sly, ruthless thing.

Arya was reminded of how easy it was to like her. She swallowed the last morsel of bread, washing it down with the flagon of cider she had wedged between her knees. “Anything else you have to tell me?”

“I haven’t known you for long, but you look…different. I can’t really explain it,” Val mused. “You reaching your womanhood aside, there’s a touch o’ something else too.”

 _Might that be the wolf dreams? Perhaps,Val knows._ “There are times when I am Nymeria,” Arya said as a spontaneous revelation; the inscrutable expression she chose to leave on leaked sincerity. Arya had not said a word of this to anyone. She had not considered what she dreamt when the sun set could be of any importance, or anyone’s concern. Arya had accepted this aspect of their bond readily when she and Nymeria had been apart. It had given her companionship when there had been loneliness, and strength, when there had been weakness.

Arya had not pondered its significance too thoroughly. She sensed eyes on her and turned to encounter the yellow gaze of her direwolf pinning her in place.

 _One. We are one,_ her direwolf queen seemed to avow.

“Must run in the family then,” Val observed with interest lacing her voice.  

“What do you mean?” Arya inquired.

“The _skinchanging_. Jon’s a skinchanger, like you.”

Surprise flashed across her face. A term she could recall hearing about once or twice in Nan’s tales as a little girl, with Bran, and sometimes Sansa, by her feet. An incomprehensible echo of her ancient voice tugged at strings of nostalgia. She turned back to the courtyard, catching a glimpse of Jon’s back as he oversaw the last structural reparations that were being done to the castle. The red eyes of Ghost were aimed at her, however, his head raised towards her direction.   

“Arya?” Val had to repeat her question. “When did it start?”

_Humans who can wear the skins of other creatures._

 “A few years ago.”

“Where were you?”

 _Lost._ “Far away.”

Arya entered a state of absentmindedness. The answers came out of her almost mechanically, as though she was being manipulated like a doll. Her vision became tinged with golden and crimson hues. A blink and she watched something like dawn explode behind her eyelids.

_Is a ghost about to possess me?_

A strong grip locking itself on her forearm brought her back. “You looked like you were ‘bout to fall.”

Jon half twisted his body to look at his direwolf. He then followed his gaze. Possibly to discover what had engaged his attention, Arya supposed. The distance was too great. He would not be able to discern her.

“Feelin’ sick?”

Arya hid a grimace at the worry arising in Val’s tone. Even though she wanted none of it, she gave away the truth for once. “No, I—I am not sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoot. Yeah. This took too long.  
> Thanks guys for reading this stuff. Really. Thanks.


	4. Jewel

Within the white, among the chill and frost, a lone figure was one with the pale of the landscape, as though they were a statuette fixed upon the ground, indifferent to the unforgiving treatment of nature. Interest steered him towards them. Snow swallowed his paws, producing a clear trail as they steadily consumed the distance. Closer—and his senses demarcated their scent from all the others. Familiar, comfortable, easily recognizable when he could reach her, press his snout to her bare calf, softly bump his head against her hip.

He circled her, brushed her skin with his fur; with his fangs, he nipped her fingers, then her thigh, a little less softly. Rosy imprints were quick to appear as the pain awoke her. She drew in a loud, sharp breath as though emerging from deep waters, thereafter she blinked several times, darting her eyes at everything and nothing at once. Out of the gloom, squalls of ice rushed forward and struck her, and as exposed as she was, her body was a helpless recipient of the might of the elements. Her legs, unable to carry her weight any longer, shook and folded, pulling her body downwards into the snow.

“What…where…?” she mumbled. With great effort, she focused on the creature watching her before losing consciousness.

Jon’s eyes snapped open. Alarm righted his upper body; he glanced at the frosted panes at one side of his bedchamber and wasted not another instant. He stood and proceeded to arm himself with heavy layers of clothing. Jon seized his fur coat lying on a chair, put it on, and deemed himself ready to face the open-air.    

Nowadays, Arya constantly seemed to be in the woods, or by the lake, beneath the boughs of the heart tree, trying to recapture, perhaps, the essence of Lord Eddard by adopting his known, ingrained ritual of visiting the godswood. But something about the wild and all it entailed had always attracted her; Jon could recall her commenting—in outbursts of childlike exuberance that inspired him to smile wide and authentic—that she wished to be a part of it, no one there to tell her how to look, what to do, to say, or not to say.

And here, as he braved the cold, following with haste the traces his direwolf left, he could almost believe it—that she had managed to integrate herself into the wild, had attained that most coveted liberty. Through the impartial eyes of Ghost, he had seen her as a solid, silver being testing the boundaries of her humanity.

Although the wind had erased part of the trail, Jon did not have to rely too much on instinct, the fading memories of his dream, or his tracking abilities to find them, for he could descry a tremendous, dark shape that could only be Nymeria beckoning him to their location. It was fortunate, Jon thought, that Arya did not stray too far into the godswood in her current condition. 

Both direwolfs were around her, their massive bulks forming a black-and-white cocoon. And as he approached, the notion that she seemed like a daughter of winter, with specks of fresh snow sparkling like pearls over her disrobed body flashed across his mind. The questions of why was she out here, in such a state, returned to swell his perturbation, knife through his imaginings and prompt him to action.

Jon slipped off his fur coat, and after the direwolfs made way for him, he wrapped Arya with it in a brisk but careful manner and, with her weight properly settled in his arms, conveyed her back to the castle with his ghost and Arya’s queen at his heels. The witching hour muffled their footsteps, eclipsed their frames as they marched through the castle.

Jon relit the fire in his bedchamber, worked it with a poker in hand into a satisfying blaze. He placed Arya near its warmth and penned her in with all the covers and furs his featherbed had to offer. A brief while was spent pondering what else he could do to ensure a complete recovery. Calling for assistance would be ideal, but the castle would inevitably be roused, and its populace would be whispering by first light and spinning yarns by noon and Arya—Arya would despise that.

He noticed a tinge of the dimmest blue on her lips and thought how the perilous touch of winter cleaved to her so rigidly. Since an indication of relenting was yet to be apparent, Jon made a decision, a decision riddled with uncertainty. He took off his boots and half of his outdoor wear. He sat down with his feet and chest bare and pulled Arya towards him. Jon felt the shallowness of her breathing against his breast, the moistness in her hair, the iciness emanating from her skin. The memory of blue, of a most vivid blue in dead men’s faces was summoned from the darkest corners of the past.

Abruptly, in a subconscious jerk, Jon lifted a scarred hand towards the fire. He let himself be ensnared and gazed into its depths. Time slowed until it crawled by while garbled silhouettes colored in yellows and reds leapt and twisted before him. A flame craned forward to touch him. The flame kissed his fingertips but instead of agony, he was given acquiescence. The temperature of his body rose to an unnatural level.

The half that was assembled with fire rumbled. The heat, the burning, the fever, the immemorial heritage flowing in his veins just as real as the other ashen, perpetually vigilant half.

His family. His cousin. Raised as siblings. The one who understood. A fleck of garnet might have swam in the gray of his eye. Jon coiled his arms around her. Hid his nose in her drying hair. Gobbled the intimacy he had been craving. The fur coat was dragged down, fingers ghosted across a naked arm, flitted over slight faint scars on her back.

His body turned into a furnace as the pallidness in her appearance receded. Though the curse of this winter was broken, he kept holding her.  The pair of guardians sprawled by the doors, the only witnesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited about S7 guys!! Did you watch the previews?? Jon looked so badass, Cersei too. She's evil and everything but that dress was amazing on her. Dany looked as she always does I guess. Grim, determined.


	5. Ardent

There was warmth in his body, constant and almost tangible. Color entered this chamber shy and weak, but it was better than the monochromatic shades she had to become used to. The sounds of his heart went through her ear as she outlined with blunt nails the numerous scars on Jon’s chest. A serenity she had not experienced in years anchored her to this pocket of time. Arya tried to recollect that which could explain her present situation, but only contrasting sensations and jumbled emotions: cold and heat, confusion and clarity, were available to her.

Just one thing was doubtlessly clear, however, and that was the danger. Arya knew its taste. And if she had been in danger, then it excused her presence here, because somehow, Jon had come to her knowing she had been in need of help. How could he have known?

_Jon’s a skinchanger. Like me._

Arya remembered red eyes looking into her. _Ghost._ A shiver traveled through her body. With a sigh, she carefully untwisted the arm around her waist, intending to rise and escape to her own bedchamber before it got too late. For Jon’s sake, it wouldn’t do to have someone see her. They weren’t children anymore.

 _They weren’t children,_ and the thought made her pause. Nostalgia pricked her heart, the feeling persuading her to glance back at Jon, who was still deeply asleep. And in that moment, there it came with a swiftness which stole her breath, the memory of a boy and a girl curling up into each other, sharing heat and companionship in secrecy during their longest nights; stemming from their closeness a simple form of empathy, a sanctuary she unconsciously had wished to return to.

The girl who became a woman and the woman who had been a girl, both sides clashed. Indistinct parts of her clamored for the recognition of their own wants. _Linger. Don’t linger._ Wasn’t there a middle ground somewhere? “We aren’t children anymore,” she murmured, therein a gap she was unsure of how to fill but knew it was, at once, tugging her far away from him, and then just as suddenly, so close they might even be one person.

Her legs trembled as they folded beneath the furs. A subtle thrill ghosted across her spine. Carefully, Arya lowered her body until their skins touched again. She let herself drowse as Jon’s chest pillowed her head. The pale light of day grew prominent, a connotation there impossible to escape as long as she lingered. Sounds from the outside world soon wafted through the window. This felt like a different kind of recklessness, of defiance—and that was familiar enough to her that it brought a smile to her face.

Somehow, all the little plain things like his breathing, his heat, his scars, when she gathered them to see them as a whole, it felt like leaning towards a precipice to peer into the dark below. But this she wanted, even if only for a short while. So evasion and camouflage it was, nothing she couldn’t do. If the problem laid in someone sighting her, then not a soul would.

 

Her abilities allowed her to use and bent her appearance and surroundings as she saw fit. But they were unable to put a stopper on the rumors now circulating about the castle. According to a couple of shrewd members of the servantry, possible signs of female companionship were detected in the King’s bedchamber. Who might she have been? No one had the faintest notion. The rumor mill was kindled and turned into a hungry monster. By the afternoon, Jon looked about to explode in exasperation.

It also didn’t help that a good night’s sleep had rewarded him with a fresh and rested complexion for the day, a fact that some took as confirmation.

Dinner, Arya had to admit, was an enjoyable affair, even though it was at Jon’s expense.

 _“You lookin’ pretty, king o’ snow, all that pretty can’t come from spendin’ nights alone!”_ Tormund exclaimed in between the raucousness of his mirth. His mead-spiced delight was too infectious. Arya watched Jon chuckle good-naturedly while Sansa and Davos, and even Sam a few seats to her right, pretended to be embarrassed. The rest of the table, and the hall, failed to hide the disbelief, the mortification, or even the lewd smiles because no King could be this perfect. At this point with their history, and in the midst of this foretold and accursed winter, it would perhaps be a relief if it were true and not only gossip. Was the King finally interested in taking a woman? In having a wife and a flock of heirs?

The tongues of the smallfolk would have enough to last them a week, Arya mused.

Tormund leaned his considerable bulk over the table to mutter not so quietly, “so who was it eh? You can tell _me,_ ” he grinned, pointing a thumb at himself.            

 Arya was a bit surprised when Jon leaned forwards too as though to reveal a secret. Since Arya had sat beside him tonight, she could listen to him whisper, “even if I had done what everyone thinks I’ve done, I wouldn’t say a thing and keep her to myself only.” There was an unexpected wickedness to the twitch of his lips, it arranged his features into something Arya hadn’t witnessed before and found she couldn’t look away.

“Oh, and watch out for Brienne—your current talk has her unhappy,” Jon added in a rush.

 “ _AH_!” Tormund’s eyes went wide and his hands slapped the wood. “How much unhappy does she look, hm?”  

 Jon feigned a moment of serious contemplation. “She might lop your head off my friend, if you keep this up.”

They both turned to the object of their conversation and there the warrior was, posture ramrod straight and stone-faced, but at times she would dart her eyes at the wildling as though he were a particularly foul thing.

Tormund slumped into his chair. “No more words from me mouth.”           

“Nicely handled, your grace,” Arya remarked into his ear, playfulness all over her countenance.

Jon swayed towards her voice, smiling like an accomplice, “why, thank you. Don’t think you’ll get out of this one, though.”

Arya frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Jon began, “we have a talk pending about what happened.”           

Arya sighed and tried not to snap at him. “I’d say there’s nothing to talk about but I know you’ll not drop it, so fine.” She took her own cup and at finding it empty, seized Jon’s and knocked back what was there. “I suppose you want me sneaking around like good old times?”

A puzzling tone crept into his quiet retort. “You’re quite the expert these days at that. I don’t see why not.”

Arya huffed and stabbed Jon’s palm with his cup. Simpering in an excessive manner, she murmured, “Then I shall await you, your grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, peeps, here I am trying to continue, I mean, this was supposed to be just a kind of drabble thing but uh yeah I want to wrap this (bite-sized) story up within a few chapters (as I'd intended). 
> 
> I appreciate all the comments I've received; and though I've been quiet round here, I've read all of them so again thank you for taking the time and coming back! Seriously, tk for reading! <3


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